


Tennis at 6 a.m.

by mistresscurvy



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-26
Updated: 2011-01-26
Packaged: 2017-10-19 05:51:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/197641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistresscurvy/pseuds/mistresscurvy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank and Gerard discover once again that sports can be cruel and painful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tennis at 6 a.m.

**Author's Note:**

> This is for [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/morebliss/profile)[**morebliss**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/morebliss/), who is understandably very sad about Rafa's early exit from the Australian Open and requested some pornstar!Gerard and Frank watching and arguing about tennis. I hope this cheers you up, bb ♥ Unbetaed; all mistakes (and tennis opinions) are mine.

“Fuck!” Frank yells, chucking a throw pillow across the room and banging his hand on the arm of the couch.

“What happened?” Gerard asks, shuffling into the room with a cup of coffee in each hand. He sets Frank’s cup down on the table and sits down on the couch, his head ducked down over the mug, breathing in the sweet smell. 6 a.m. is too fucking early, even for Grand Slam tennis.

“Rafa injured his thigh or something in the second game, and he’s toast,” Frank says. “Like, he can play through a lot of pain, no question, but he’s not even going for his shots! It’s just over. I can’t take this,” he says, covering his face with his hands.

“Oh, no,” Gerard says sadly. “And I was hoping for another Rafa-Roger final, too.”

“Yeah, and now Federer’s just gonna waltz through and win again, no suspense, no nothing, and Rafa didn’t even get a real chance to go for his Slam,” Frank mutters, finally noticing the coffee on the table and moving to grab it.

Gerard sits up, suddenly wide awake. “Hey, there will be none of that! Roger’s gotta get through Djokovic first—”

“Oh please, Roger’s fit and been playing better as the tournament’s gone on, he’ll be fine.”

“—and then,” Gerard continues firmly, glaring at Frank, “ _assuming_ he makes it past the only guy who’s beaten him at the Australian other than Rafa since freaking 2005, he’ll face either Murray, who’s due for a breakthrough at a Major—”

“Oh come the fuck on, he looks like a fucking giraffe in headlights every time he gets on the court with Roger, no way is he winning,” Frank scoffs.

“—or he’ll face Ferrer, who’s fit and fast and beating fucking Rafa!”

Frank stares at him like he’s got a tumor growing out of his forehead. “Who’s clearly injured, and is only staying in the match out of, like, fucking honor or some shit! I mean, don’t get me wrong, Ferrer’s a quality player, but no way is this a three set match going to David if Rafa’s full-strength, you can’t possibly think that.”

“Maybe not,” Gerard says, sipping his coffee. “But you know it’s bad luck to say that Federer’s just going to win it all. Even though he probably is,” he concedes.

“Humph,” Frank says, pulling up the blanket over his shoulders and resting his face on his hand, wincing as Rafa fails to chase down yet another ball that would be the setup for one of his classic winners any other day of the week.

Gerard puts down his coffee, his focus on more important things. “Come here,” he says, getting his back to the arm of the couch and spreading his legs open. He pats the couch cushion between his legs. “Frankie.”

Frank looks over and starts to shuffle across the couch to him. “Don’t try to make me feel better with sex, Gerard, you know that doesn’t work for sports,” Frank says, cuddling up between Gerard’s legs and resting his head on his chest. He sighs heavily, letting his body relax against Gerard’s.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, I learned my lesson after the 2009 U.S. Open,” Gerard says, pulling the blanket up so that it’s covering both of them and rubbing his hands over Frank’s back.

“That was fucking bullshit, I still can’t believe Federer lost to fucking del Potro, what the fuck even,” Frank says, nuzzling into Gerard’s chest.

“It wasn’t Roger’s day,” Gerard says serenely. “He’ll get it this time.”

“He’d better,” Frank says. He kisses Gerard’s collarbone and then tilts his head back over Gerard’s arm, eyes bright. “We waking up tomorrow morning for the semis?”

“Of course,” Gerard says, and he kisses Frank softly before turning back to the television to watch the rest of the highlights.


End file.
